A hundred surfers sit in the waves and, on the shore, a hundred bags laden a table in the sand. Guarded by one man who's not paying attention because he's renting out boards. Watches, purses, earrings, phones, bike keys, sandals, zinc sticks, wallets, necklaces--the table is a treasure trove. If you totted it all up, it would probably be somewhere in the region of several thousand pounds worth of value. At least. Oh, don't forget the Ray Bans. Up the price tag goes.
The beach tells a similar story. Towels strewn about, bags dropped haphazardly on top. Some people have taken the time to stack everything up, a little pile of goods. Others have left their tote bags open, book and wallet falling out. Stray dogs sniff at a tipped over coconut next to a Prada handbag. Everyone's in the water, jumping through the whitewash, floating on their backs, not looking to the beach.
If I had a penny for everytime I've been warned about pickpockets, I'd be a very loud, jangly target for the theives. My pockets would be almost too heavy. But, if I had a penny for everytime I've been pickpocketed, they'd be very disappointed indeed.
I wonder if, when my parents were growing up, it truly was a real problem. Maybe they did have to watch their bag at every turn. The Europeans I've met out here insist that in their cities-Barcelona, Paris, Berlin-it's an epidemic. You can't move apparently for hands sneaking into your pocket to pinch something. I've visited some of these cities though. Dutifully kept my backpack on my front and my bag strap tied around the chair leg at dinner. Al fresco dining offers, it would seem, a perfect target for would be thieves. Again, more a problem for the contintent. But still, I've never been pickpocketed.
Wondering now if I should start to be offended. Perhaps I don't look like I'd have much to steal. A brief review of my current bum bag tells me that I actually have almost nothing to steal. Beyond my phone and purse, we've got a lighter, a birthday candle, a broken necklace, a pack of cards, a soggy wristband from Wednesday's club, half a pack of immodium, my room mate's hoop earrings I haven't returned yet, three pens (I think two have run out), a stick of zinc and some Nivea suncream. The suncream might be the most valuable thing in there, given you can't get a hold of it out here.
I don't think it's that though. I think it's the same reason why I can leave my purse and sandals at the coconut stall when I go out into the water, with no expectation of having to buy something. Generosity of the human spirit.
Perhaps thought to be a myth these days but, in the bag laden table and strewn beach, I can see it. A trust in each other that no one's going to ruin someone else's day by thieving. There's a poem by Danusha Lameris that speaks to it almost exactly. That people move their legs out of the aisle, that someone will grab the tin from the highest shelf for you, that a stranger will smile at your baby burbling in the buggy. Generally, we are kind without grandeur. It's the 'Small Kindnesses' that matter, not the big gestures. The token of trust we grant each stranger we pass that they too are grieving, are falling in love for the first time, have an important meeting today, are feeling a little homesick for a childhood they can't reach anymore. And wouldn't we all like to lighten the load.
So we do. In Lameris' words, we still say bless you; we say thank you to the person handing us our coffee; the pick-up driver lets us pass; we are far from tribe and fire but we find the true dwelling of the holy here. In smiling at a stranger and holding the door open. In leaving our bag in the sand and knowing we will come back to it, undisturbed.
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